


everything comes undone

by royalwisteria



Series: I am enamored of fairy tales [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst, F/M, Happy Ending, mentions of abuse, mentions of sexual abuse (very light)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:29:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4388348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royalwisteria/pseuds/royalwisteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy has been working ceaselessly under the Murphy's, a slave, waiting for a chance to go and find his sister Octavia, whose whereabouts he desperately wants to discover. It has been 15 years, but Bellamy tends carefully to his fire of faith and waits patiently.</p>
<p>Clarke is busy helping her mother run Ark, worrying about a possible war with Weathervale and a treaty with the Clans, and somehow people seem to think she needs help finding a husband. Three consecutive balls are scheduled, and Commander Lexa seems to think this a wonderful time to visit.</p>
<p>If Bellamy could somehow figure out a way to go, he could manage an escape from the hell of his life; Clarke just wants the balls, a waste of time and money, to be over as quickly as possible.</p>
<p>Then they meet.</p>
<p>[a bellarke cinderella au]</p>
            </blockquote>





	everything comes undone

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to two wonderful friends- [Rachel](http://buffy-griffin.tumblr.com), who encouraged me, told me the idea was good when I was hesitating over even writing this, and read it over for me several times; and Rebecca, who prodded me to write when all I wanted to do was lay limp on a couch after hiking, and helped with reading it over and catching stuff I had been too tired to catch. This story would not be here without either of them. I love them loads.
> 
> It would also not be here if not for The 100 Big Bang, for which this story was originally intended. I didn't complete this on time, but it has been completed nonetheless.
> 
> As visible in the tags, there is physical abuse as well as sexual abuse. Both are Bellamy's experiences, but are not in graphic detail, as well as the sexual abuse being mentioned very briefly. If this might trigger you, please do not read for your own safety.
> 
> Two additional stories are planned in this series: one for Octavia, which is in the midst of being planned; one focusing on a Miller/Monty relationship, which has not been planned AT ALL haha.
> 
> Thanks for clicking, reading this note, and I hope you enjoy! Hit me up on [tumblr](http://serbellamy.tumblr.com) if you'd like!

A list of chores lies on Bellamy’s bedside table, a small, crudely crafted piece of furniture. It’s written on a scrap of butchers paper and the writing is cramped due to the space available. The list reads:

  1. feed the cats— also check the mousetraps!
  2. also chickens
  3. help with breakfast? serve the damn food
  4. then wash dishes
  5. laundry
  6. tidy bedrooms
  7. lunch break?
  8. check on stables (old bastard’s getting paranoid)



And so on, with further chores such as polishing silver, scrubbing floors, and more of that ilk included. His body still aches from the long, similar list of back-breaking chores from yesterday, the day previous, and so on for years. When the sun rises, light pouring into the small, sparsely furnished room from the east-facing window, Bellamy groans as he wakes up, turning away from the window, back creaking. His bed is too short for him, and his feet continuously dangle over the end, causing further ache to his ankles. His arm falls to the floor and his fingers curl so his knuckles are pressed into the rough wooden floor. Opposite his bed is a dresser, of similar poor make of the bedside table. The contents are as sparse as the room, sparse as Bellamy’s free time: a few work shirts, and an obviously worn suit for parties he’s required to attend.

The rooster crows, and Bellamy forces himself to get up and he snatches the list and resists the urge to crumple it as he gets out of bed. It’s been years, and he’s still not used to waking with the sun. The masters of the house won’t be up yet, but Bellamy can hear the cooks in the kitchen, arriving earlier than he wakes up, and the one maid whistling as she comes down the lane.

He sighs and stands up, gets dressed and tucks the list safely away. Better start with the cats. There are four of them: an orange tabby, Pokey; a grungy brown striped one, Bess; a solid gray, Katty; and the pride of the quartet is a proud, black cat. The others in the house don’t care much for Midnight, but his fur is the sleekest and he catches the most mice. Bellamy doesn’t set any stock in superstition and Midnight is his favorite. The others are okay, but Midnight is special.

All four were named by a previous cook’s kids. Bellamy liked the guy, Francisco, an elaborate name for a cook, but he was fired for having his kids over too often some years ago. Francisco had protested, on the grounds that they had never been a problem, but the Murphy patriarch had been absolute. He had been fired and given no recommendation for future occupation.

The four cats are curled up near each other in the back courtyard, and Pokey perks up first, blinking large yellow eyes as Bellamy approaches from the kitchen. The others soon wake up, smelling the fish carcass he’s carrying. The cooks smiled at him as he went through the kitchen on his way to the courtyard, but didn’t speak. Bellamy prefers not to speak to them, because the cooks don’t tend to last very long. In fact, he’s the only one who’s been working here for any length of time. That’s another story.

“Morning,” he whispers, crouching next to them. They meow, and Katty butts her head against his hand. He smiles and rubs her head affectionately before he lays the fish carcass down. He’d like to feed them more than a single carcass, but if he overfeeds them they stop catching as many mice; the Murphy’s would then get rid of the cats. Bellamy’s learned from experience. Midnight stalks forward and the other three back off so Midnight can take the choicest spot at the carcass.

Scratching Midnight at the ears, Bellamy soon stands up to check on the mousetraps. One has a mouse caught in its vice, but the others are empty. He disposes of the mouse and resets the trap as sun starts to dapple the courtyard. As far as he can tell, the sun is not yet fully risen, and there’s a fine mist outside the courtyard, over the vegetable garden, around the orchard and spreading into the forest.

“Morning,” the maid calls out, placing a bucket of chicken feed at the door.

“Morning, Roma,” Bellamy replies, Pokey following him as he crosses to her.

She smiles, puts a hand on her hip and stretches. “These early mornings get me every day.”

He nods and takes the bucket. He hears Roma take a step, as though to follow him, but she doesn’t. Soon he hears the door close behind him as she returns to the kitchen. The chickens are clucking in their coop and he quickly ducks inside to spread their feed onto the ground. They immediately flutter around his feet and he deftly checks their roosts for eggs and swipes them.

When he leaves, he closes the door behind him and Katty and Midnight are both sitting in front of him, staring with accusing eyes. He sighs and rolls his eyes and bends down to pet the two of them. Katty is satisfied and leaves to go stalk something, but Midnight stands, tail arching, and gives a high-pitched meow. “Goddamn cats,” he mutters, but bends down to give Midnight a more thorough scratch at the ears and jaw. Midnight starts purring.

“Miller,” Bellamy calls to the newer cook, stepping into the kitchen. “Here are the eggs.”

Miller glances up and smiles. “Thanks. Young master’s tray is ready.”

Bellamy purses his lips and takes the tray. The young master, John, is quite possibly his least favorite person in the world, but it’s a close tie for his father. Fifteen years have passed, but Bellamy has never forgotten the look of sick pleasure the young bastard had at the slave market. He will never forget the boot to his face and stomach when he begged them to buy his sister as well and the cruel whippings he had as a boy. He has never forgotten and he will _never_ forget the cruelties of the Murphy family. Just as he swore he’d find his sister, he swore to never forget.

It is three flights of stairs to John’s bedroom, and Bellamy carefully balances the tray. Bellamy knocks once to no answer; John is still asleep, which is not surprising. He opens the door quietly and sets the tray down on the table near the door, there for such a purpose.

He returns to the kitchen and delivers the trays to the master suite for Murphy and his wife’s breakfast in two trips.

The sun is higher in the sky now, fully risen; he can see it clearly over the roof as he stands in the courtyard again. There are streaks of pink and purple and Bellamy is bitter, not blind, and admits its beauty. He just doesn’t have the time nor energy for beauty anymore. The four cats have scattered to their favorite nooks and crannies, he supposes, and the day is just beginning. Mornings are always easiest, because he doesn’t have to talk to anyone, doesn’t have to deal with any of the Murphy family.

Bellamy can be by himself, have alone moments, and make promise upon promise to his sister that he _is_ coming, he is, he will find her and he will buy her out of slavery. He just needs to become free himself.

John requires help choosing his clothes, yelling for his help, his voice audible from every room. Roma helps with the laundry, sending Bellamy flirtatious glances he both ignores and pretends to not understand. The Murphy family is out today, making calls upon other rich families, he supposes, and it makes the day better than others. The horses are in good condition and he writes a quick report and places it on the old bastard’s desk for him to peruse later. The silver is polished into their finest condition since three days ago when he last polished them, and the vegetable garden is coming along nicely. The leaves in the trees are slowly changing color and his autumn vegetables are maturing beautifully; there’s some squash to pick tomorrow and the pumpkins, few though they are, are slowly growing large.

Fifteen years, Bellamy thinks. He’s been doing this for fifteen years. How has he not gone mad? Made an orphan one day and three days later the two remaining Blakes had no home, no money, no family relations willing to deal with the children of a gambler anda woman who sold favors to support her family. It was his choice to sell themselves, because he thought it better than the alternative: dying.

After the sun sets, he lies in bed, a new list on his bedside table, though it is not much different from today’s. He will save his sister, Bellamy thinks as he falls asleep. If it’s the last thing he does, he will save Octavia.

 

 

Tonight the Murphy’s are holding a party. The reason is to celebrate the turning of seasons, but Bellamy knows the Murphy’s are ostentatious and enjoy the dining, wining and dancing far more than they probably should. He can’t recall how many of these events he had to assist John at. He’s a full grown adult, yet he still requires a manservant at hand and foot to do anything.

Earlier in the day, he spent hours in the garden, weeding, pruning and delivering matured vegetables to the cooks. Miller gives him a grateful smile and incorporates the squash, broccoli and others well, if the smells emanating from the kitchen any evidence.

He helps John chose his attire for the evening and then changes as quick as he can. Bellamy can’t quite get all the dirt from his fingernails and whorls of his fingers, but so few will notice him that his less than perfect hands will escape notice. Then he waits at John’s shoulder as they welcome people and more people to the Murphy household.

Roma and another temporary maid help serve the food, and people keep moving through the house. Miller and Jerome did an excellent job with the food, but no less was expected of them. Bellamy follows John throughout the house, a foot behind him at all times, holding his plates and glasses as he finishes with them. John is soon beyond tipsy and is carousing loudly with friends of his. Bellamy doesn’t know their names, but it is from a tall woman who has an arm around John’s waist when he first hears of the ball.

“Apparently the Queen is sick of the Princess being unmarried,” she says, snorting as she downs another glass of wine. Bellamy has seen her down many glasses as quickly as this one. “They’re holding three successive masquerade balls to try and get her to fall in love.”

“Our Princess? Wouldn’t know if love bit her in the ass.” They all laugh.

“I wouldn’t mind becoming a prince,” John slurs and the laughter turns louder.

“I’d love to see that,” a friend says, slapping John on the shoulder. John stumbles forward, wine sloshing from his cup. “Our dour, serious princess, with this fellow? What a pair!”

“I could do it!” John says. “The only men she talks to are old and wrinkly, I’d be a sight for sore eyes.”

The woman from before shakes her head, and Bellamy stiffens as her eyes travel up and down him. “Speaking of sore eyes…” she trails off and John stands a little straighter.

“Him?” he asks with a thumb jerking towards Bellamy. “Want a taste?”

This is illegal, Bellamy thinks, as a deal is processed. Prostitution was outlawed years ago, but there are ways to get around that, especially if one is noble. He doesn’t know how many times this has happened, but the Murphy’s are greedy and care for little beyond themselves.

The woman does not spend long with him, and she never asks for his name. He doesn’t know hers; nor does he want to. He returns to the mansion when the servants are gone and knows that he will be worked hard the next day to clean the building up. Roma and the temp partially cleaned the ballroom, but the Murphy’s will want it cleaned with greater detail than that.

After all, he is a slave. They can do whatever they wish to him, but not to servants like Roma and Miller.

 

 

A needle pokes her waist and Clarke winces. This is the fifth time. They’re the royal tailors; theoretically, they should be better than this, but alas, theory does not always turn into practice.

“More beading, I think,” her mother says from the sidelines. She’s standing, in trousers Clarke eyes enviously, chin in hand. “Along that hemline.”

The seamstress who poked her waist sighs. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she says and moves away from her waist. A cloth falls down, one that was experimentally being draped around her torso. Clarke sighs and would like to make some sort of commiserating remark, or an expression at the least, but that’s not allowed.

She’s been put in this dress for twenty minutes so far and she’s done already. Clarke doesn’t know why she can’t wear one of her old dresses, of which there are many, but her mother insisted.

“And the hem,” her mother adds. “Bring it up a little.”

Why is her mother even here? It’s not her dress fitting. Clarke looks into the mirror and purses her lips as she surveys the dress. Dark blue, strapless, with an a-line waist and made of a sleek fabric. It’s a pretty dress, flattering color and shape, but she dislikes it on principal. Clarke likes dresses, thinks them a useful tool and enjoys the sheer beauty of some of them, but having three balls and three new dresses is ridiculous.

It was Kane’s idea and Clarke’s distaste for the man deepens. He’s a good advisor when it comes to agriculture, economy, things with structure, but not on this. Clarke wasn’t present when he brought the idea up, which is probably how he was able to persuade her mother to agree with the idea.

Balls, to find a husband. How utterly ridiculous— besides terribly humiliating. She doesn’t want to know what other nobles are thinking, because she knows what some think of her. To many, she’s a tool, and to some she’s a bore.

“You may step down,” the seamstress says and Clarke smiles at her as she does so.

“Next dress,” her mother says and Clarke sighs.

“No,” she says, lifting her hair up so the seamstress can get at the zipper for her. “I’m done.”

“This is only the first dress,” her mother says and Clarke can see her entering a fighting stance.

“The balls are weeks off,” Clarke says, shimmying out of the dress and stepping to where her normal clothes are laying in a pile. Her pants are pulled on quickly and the blouse just as fast. “I have work to do, as do you.”

Her mother frowns. “Clarke—”

“Need I remind you,” she says coldly, lifting her hair from under the collar. “That I am unwillingly doing this?”

Her mother’s mouth shuts and Clarke smiles at the seamstress, who’s eyes are darting between the two of them, and then puts her boots on, lacing them up quickly. “Thanks, Maddie. Go ahead and do what needs to be done.”

As Clarke leaves, to go look over the expense reports that have been piling on her desk recently, her mother follows. The crown glints in the light as she moves and Clarke feels the tiara in her own hair.

“Clarke, you need to get married.”

“No, mother,” she replies. “Kane thinks I’m being irresponsible and need a husband to reign in my independent streak. We don’t have time for these cursed balls, and you well know it.” It’s an old argument, one they’ve had ever since the announcement was released and the planning begun.

“The people will enjoy it,” her mother insists, walking abreast.

She snorts. Their arguments are worn thin from how many times they’ve had them. “The people,” she echoes. “Sure. I’m positive the top five percent who can attend will enjoy them.”

“Clarke,” her mother says tiredly, stopping. “What did you want me to do?”

“Say no! I don’t need new dresses. We don’t need the expenditure. Lexa needs solid proof that we will be good allies if the Wallace’s in Weathervale attack and we’re holding balls? What nonsense,” she says, scoffing.

“See you at dinner,” her mother says quietly and Clarke leaves her behind.

Wells is in her office, and Clarke sighs at the sight of him. Someone more like-minded, at last. He grins at the obvious relief on her face. “I take it the dress-fitting went swimmingly.”

She rolls her eyes and moves to the desk opposite his. The papers loom menacingly at her. “The best part of the balls,” she says with an eyebrow raised, “will be forcing you into a tux each and every single night.” He grimaces and she smirks. “Stop teasing me.”

“There’s a letter from Lexa on the table,” he says and she picks it up and fingers the heavy stationary. Another letter is a bad sign.

 

> _Clarke,_
> 
> _Even though I’ve not received an invitation to the balls you will be holding, I’m considering myself and others of my court invited. We will also require lodging._
> 
> _Lexa_

“She just invited herself to the balls,” she says, falling into her chair, head falling back and hair spilling over the back of the chair. “Great.”

Wells snorts. “I’ve met her and she’s not that bad. Intense, sure, but still a good person.”

“She’s demanding,” Clarke says, pulling out a sheet of parchment to draft a reply. “And I hate the balls already. Can’t you just imagine the smug looks she’ll give me, judging me for needing a man? She has Costia, is Commander, and I’m just a princess with no one.”

“You’re a very good princess,” Wells says, but his voice indicates that he’s left her, working on salaries.

The harvest was good this year, but that doesn’t mean it was good the years before. Ark has fine artisans, they’re known for their technology, but they are mostly a bartering country that depends on the harvest. They’ve lost a lot of money since the drought began a few years ago and they should be saving money, preparing for the threat of war, not _balls_.

Clarke knows most of the court thinks her headstrong, stubborn, too willing to dismiss advice from more experienced nobles, but that doesn’t make her stupid. The balls might be thought of as a ruse to cover up any troubles, but it’s a poor one. Why not hold a festival for the entire kingdom, instead of balls only for the wealthy? She knows what some of the nobles in Ark are like and she’s willing to bet that they are most likely to benefit from the balls and further disadvantage the common folk.

 

 

The five weeks until the ball dwindle into two days and the dresses are done. She has worked with the cooks for the food to be served, the drinks, hiring extra staff for the three nights, and rooms have been prepared for Lexa and her retinue. She’s to arrive tonight and treaty talks will continue up until the day of the final ball.

She hasn’t been sleeping much and she doesn’t imagine she’ll be getting much until the balls are over. During the day there will be peace talks, and at night she’ll be dancing. Clarke might dislike the balls, but at least they’ll be able to more effectively discuss Weathervale with the Clans.

A horn sounds, which means that the Clans entourage with Lexa is approaching. Clarke stands up, stretches a little, and goes down to the Great Hall. Her mother is there, as well as other nobles. She spots the Collins family, a Jordan, and one of the Murphy’s. Both of the surviving Jaha’s are there, Thelonius in discussion with Kane as Wells looks over and smiles at her.

Clarke smiles back and takes her position at Abby’s side. Abby glances at her. “You ready for this?”

She shakes her head minutely. “This is going to be a very long week.”

Abby sighs her agreement and then the horn sounds again, the doors opening. Abby steps forward, a welcoming smile on her face. Lexa walks in, her long fur coat dragging on the stone floor, and her entourage follows. Costia, Clarke notes, is not with her, but other important Clans members are there. So are Clans warriors.

“Welcome back to Ark, Commander Lexa,” Abby says. “We hope your stay will be pleasant.”

Lexa inclines her head. “We appreciate your hospitality,” she replies in her smooth, mellow voice. “We would like to be shown to our chambers in order to dispense of our gear.”

Clarke steps forward. “It would be my honor,” she says, bowing slightly.

Lexa smiles, a real one; Clarke tentatively returns it. “It’s been a while, Clarke.”

“It has indeed.”

With a jerk of her fingers, the rest of her entourage springs into lines behind her as Clarke leads them to the rooms prepared for them.

“I hope the journey was pleasant,” she says.

Lexa waves a hand dismissively. “It was uneventful.” It’s said as though the uneventfulness of the trip was boring, as though she wished something had happened.

“I see Costia has not come with you.”

The smile she gave Clarke before was predatory, as though seeing a like-minded creature, and the smile now turns soft and tender. “Costia is caring for the Clans lands while I am here. She knows my mind best and is the only one I fully trust to do as I would.”

Clarke doesn’t know how to reply and is grateful when the doors appear just ahead of them. “I hope you will be able to trust us nearly as much in the future,” she says, opening the door for them. “A maid will come and inform you when dinner is served. I will see you then.” Lexa nods and one of her men steps into the room before. Clarke doesn’t want to know why and walks away.

The months when fever ravaged the country was hard, but this week is sure to be even harder. That night, Clarke tosses and turns once again.

 

 

There are few things Bellamy hates as much as balls. He hates the Murphy’s the most, yes, but the balls intensify everything. They get on edge, snappier, more demanding, and since these balls are royal balls, everything is worse. When it’s just one of the Murphy cronies, like the Mbege family, it’s not as bad. They’re demanding yes, but don’t require Bellamy to go over every gilded inch of the carriage like they had him do yesterday.

Their outfits have been laid out, ready for them, for a few days now. John was eyeing his like he’s going to demand a whole new series of suits and tuxedos, just to have choice, but he’s run out of time to do anything. It’s the morning of the first night, and Bellamy stares out towards the forest as Midnight winds around his leg.

If only he could go to the ball.

They’re designed for the princess to find a husband, the poor girl, but he couldn’t care less about the princess. He wants to meet someone he can seduce, someone who can take him out of the Murphy household. Bellamy has the whole scenario planned out: she falls in love, they elope, her family doesn’t mind. He never has to return here and, since she’ll be wrapped around his little finger, he can start the search for his long-lost sister.

In theory, a good plan. In practice, impossible. Bellamy owns few clothes as it is, and the only decent thing he has to wear is the suit he wears when the Murphy’s host a party, and it is worn and old. Even if he did wear it, how would he get to the palace? Walk? It’s ridiculous.

He stands and basks in the sun for a moment longer before returning inside. Miller is whistling a tune and winks at Bellamy when he hears the door close. “The next three days will be good,” he says, pointing to the tray on the table. He’s kneading bread, flour covering his front and all the way up to his elbows. “Every single night off.”

He smiles weakly in return. “Yeah. It’ll be great.” For them. Everyone else can return home at the end of the day, but Bellamy stays here. He is sure the old bastard will have a list of tasks Bellamy is to have completed by the next morning. These balls will not be nights off for him, but more nights of loneliness, of back-breaking work.

John isn’t awake and he’s snoring when Bellamy puts the tray away and he goes to the garden while he waits for him to awake.

The vegetables are growing at a steady rate. The squash needs to be picked again, and there are some late blooming tomatoes to be picked. The branches of the fruit trees are starting to sag from the weight of ripen fruits and Bellamy picks a ripe-seeming apple and bites into it. He should snap some broccoli off, pick some beans; the pumpkins are coming along nicely, but aren’t ready for harvesting yet. Then his name is called. Bellamy takes another bite of the apple, tosses it, and returns inside.

If only he could go to the ball.

Bellamy holds the suit up that evening, when the Murphy’s have rattled off in their elaborate carriage, and eyes it critically. There’s a hole in the back of the shirt, but if he keeps the jacket on the whole night, no one would notice. He puts it on, just to try it out, and considers himself, holding his arms out, checking the fit and punches the wall in frustration. The pants are a little too short, the jacket fits terribly, his shoes are nearly falling apart, the shirt is missing a button— there are endless reasons why he can’t wear it.

If only he could go.

The sun hasn’t set yet and it falls beautifully into the courtyard. He can see Pokey lolling in the sun, Katty not far away. It takes a longer moment, but then he spies Bess hiding amongst the baskets he uses for carrying the vegetables. He smiles and spots Midnight creeping out of the forest, a dead rodent in his mouth.

With a whole night of work stretching ahead of him, he might as well spend some of it with the cats.

Pokey rolls half-over when he enters the courtyard and Bellamy stretches out next to him. Katty stalks to him and meows, nosing at his neck and then finally curls next to him. Midnight drops something near him, and Bellamy assumes it’s the rodent.

It’d be nice to be a cat, he thinks, as Katty starts to purr, Pokey joining in soon after. He would be free from doing the Murphy’s bidding, to wander, come and go as he pleases.

“I wish,” he murmurs, idly running fingers down Midnight’s spine. “I wish I could go to the ball.”

There’s a sound of something catching fire, a whooshing of air, and Bellamy scrambles to his feet. The cats continue lounging on the floor, though Midnight gives him a reproachful look. He glances around and is confused when there’s no fire, though a stranger is spinning around with a gleeful look, her dress swirling through the air.

“Who’re you?” he asks, taking a cautious step forward.

“Ah, you must’ve been the one who called,” the young woman says cheerfully, flourishing a slender birch branch in hand. “And here I am! I’m Raven and your fairy godmother. Well,” she adds, the other hand on hip and tapping her chin with the branch thoughtfully. “Temporary, and only because Wick’s in the middle of something and I owe him one. He’s your actual fairy godparent, but anyways. Here I am! To help you. Or, well, whatever.”

Bellamy glances at Midnight, who’s looking intently into the forest. If he was a dog, he’d be growling or something. “I’m sorry. You’re a fairy godmother?”

“I said that,” she says. “Now, hurry up, what’s your wish?”

“This is a little—”

“What, don’t believe? Let me show you.” With a wave of the branch, a broken wheel that had sat in the courtyard for two years starts moving and rolls all the way to Bellamy’s feet.

“What the hell,” he murmurs.

“That’s got to be the least imaginative response I’ve gotten, but c’mon, boy, make your wish. I’ve got a poker game to return to.”

Bellamy frowns. “I have a few questions first.”

The woman sighs. “I hate questions and, really, there’s no point asking. I’m forbidden to answer any of them.”

“But, still,” Bellamy says, insistent. “I’ve been working my ass off for years, and it’s now that someone appears? What the fuck.”

She shrugs. “I can’t answer that.” He stares blankly at her and she smiles sympathetically. “However, I can grant your wish. Just tell me.”

“I—” He runs through the list of things he wants, and one jumps out immediately. “I want to be reunited with my sister.”

The smile fades away. “That is not what you were wishing for when I arrived. I can only grant that particular wish.”

Bellamy closes his eyes, in pain. What’s the use in a fairy whatever if they can’t solve anything? The ball is a possibility, not an eventuality; it’s the start of a process that isn’t guaranteed to work. He needs to have some gullible rich lady fall for him and die to marry him, which will be a task. “I wish to go to the ball.”

“Excellent, I can do that,” she says excitedly. “Now, spin around, I’ll just swish my wand and voila, done.”

He does so and feels the magic swirl around him, dirt and dead leaves from the courtyard joining in. When the air settles, he’s wearing a tuxedo he’s not entirely comfortable in. In his lapel is a blue aster, and he raises an eyebrow at the lady.

“Okay, now that’s done, let’s get you a carriage.”

“I’m fine with just a horse, really,” he tries interjecting, but she’s already wandered off towards the forest, near his vegetable garden.

“Ah, this’ll do nicely,” she says poking at one of the pumpkins with her wand. “Hope you like orange.” She taps the top of the pumpkin and suddenly it’s rolling around, growing larger and larger. It takes the shape of a carriage, though all Bellamy can think about is whether or not this absurdity crushed the rest of the vegetables.

“Hey,” he says, walking over, “you can’t just go around, turning pumpkins into carriages. That’s just… not done.”

“Listen up,” she says, tone harsh and wand poking him in the chest. “I have been doing this fairy godmother shit for years, and I’ve dealt with a lot of assholes in the past. I turned them to frogs. D’you want to be a frog?”

Bellamy shakes his head no.

“Good. Then shut up. Let me do this thing and get you to the ball so you can woo the princess. Now, we need horses. I don’t suppose you have mice or anything?”

He shakes his head, again, while smiling. “Nah, that’s what the cats are for.”

“Ah, what a wonderful idea! Cats into horses. I should take pictures.” She waves her wand, and Bellamy hears high-pitched mewling turn into neighs. “Now, look, kid. I get that your life has been hard, but the funny thing is, fairy godparents are not actually here to be sympathetic. I doubt you even want sympathy; you don’t look the type.”

“I’m not,” he says heavily, watching his cats— horses, now, approach the pumpkin carriage and sniff it with cat-like gestures despite being horses, nostrils flaring. “This isn’t even the wish of my heart.”

“And I’m sorry that no one appeared to grant your other wishes.” She steps closer and clasps his shoulder. “Fairy godparents are for chances and we are not an easy escape. We can do magic, but the real magic is what you can achieve yourself. You go to that ball, and you make that princess fall for you.”

“Thanks, I guess,” he says. He doesn’t correct her for the second mention: he has no interest in the princess.

She smiles softly. “If it’s worth anything, Wick believes in you, and he’s usually right. Now get that fine ass of yours on that seat and get to the ball.”

“What about a mask?” he asks, remembering the elaborate mask the Murphy’s had been wearing. “It’s a masquerade ball.”

“Ah,” she says, stymied. “A mask. I hate masks. Wick is much better at them, if I’m honest. Let me give it a whirl.” She furrows her brow, waving her wand in a senseless pattern before inspiration appears to hit. “I’ve got it. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.” She waves her wand and he feels ribbons wrap around his head and tie in the back, a mask gently adhering to his face. “Black,” she informs him. “Just black. Not fancy, elaborate, but simple. Straight-forward and hides stains. Rather like you.”

He’s not sure that’s a compliment, but he still thanks her as he clambers into the front of the carriage. He has no need for a coachman, or any footmen, and thankfully she seems to understand that.

“Wick will be here tomorrow night, as I’m just covering the first time— make sure to tell him Raven did a good job. And, remember this,” she says, stepping closer and pulling on his collar so their eyes meet. “At midnight, the spells come undone. The carriage will return to a pumpkin, the horses to their feline reality and the clothes to the servants garb you wear. Got it?”

He nods; she lets go. With a flick of the reins, his horses, his beloved cats, start cantering and they’re on their way to the palace.

 

 

“I’ve never been fond of dancing,” Lexa murmurs to Clarke as they watch colorful gowns intermix with black dress suits and tuxedoes as they process into the ballroom. “Too frivolous. We don’t have the time for such activities in the Clan lands.”

Clarke smiles tightly. The past few days have been unbearable. Apparently Lexa likes her and requests her presence whenever possible. Despite having a full schedule and being busy with state business, she is required to attend to Lexa and assure that the Clans leader has a wonderful time in Ark. She wishes Lexa hadn’t taken a shining to her. The talks apparently don’t progress without her presence, and it’s frustrating that Lexa talks her mother in circles in the alliance talks. They need to create an allied front against Weathervale, but it doesn’t seem like that’s what Lexa’s interested in. If often seems that she’s mostly interested in Clarke, which is exactly what she doesn’t want. At dinner, Lexa often sits close to her and asks endless questions, trying to ferret out further details of Clarke’s life. It’s exhausting.

“I’m fond of it myself,” she says. Less people are entering the ballroom now and soon the dancing will begin. “My father loved to dance.” Lexa looks doubtful, but doesn’t say anything. It’s disrespectful to the dead to speak ill of them. “Mayhap I could teach you to enjoy it as I do.”

“It’s frivolous,” Lexa reminds her.

“Sometimes frivolity can be good,” Clarke says, though it goes against most of what she has believed and practiced for years. She had felt the cost keenly when discussing food to be served with the chefs, and the entertainments for the guests. But now, standing at the head of the room, by the throne where her mother sits, she enjoys it. When her dad was alive, they held periodic balls; her father claimed it made the people happy and maybe it did. Clarke hasn’t had a new ballgown since his death and the dark blue dress she’s wearing tonight reminds her of why she loved dancing. Beauty is a power, and Clarke can sense this power as noblemen and women stare at her in surprise. It has been a long time since she dressed up; perhaps too long. She should remind them that she is more than the dour, boring, too-serious princess they see her as. She should remind them that she is more than they think.  
The last guests straggle in and a trumpet is blowing as the door are flung open. A young man strides in, a blue flower in his lapel, donning a simple black mask that contrasts with the elaborate masks most of the guests wear. Clarke doesn’t recognize him and frowns at Wells, mouthing, _who is he?_ Wells shrugs. “Hell if I know,” he leans in to whisper to her.

Frowning lightly, she returns her gaze to the stranger. Everyone else is staring and with a jaunty, almost mocking, bow, he enters the crowd. He is tall, though not the tallest, and his hair is not meticulously combed and gelled back into a pompadour; it is loose, curly, unrestrained. The blue flower amidst the jeweled cloths of the crowd is refreshing and it should seem cheap, somehow, Clarke knows, but it looks better. It looks real.

“Who is that man?” Lexa asks her.

“I have no idea,” Clarke replies faintly before grinning. “But I’m going to find out.”

The trumpets finish their call for dancing and Clarke steps down into the masses, heading straight for the unknown man. People try to stop her, hinder her progress; her mask, which is small with elaborate embroidery, does nothing to hide her identity. Nor does the mask of Finn Collins hide his identity, his coiffure easily identifiable as he asks her hand for the first dance, and she smiles as she brushes by. She finds the man chatting to a young lady with a rabbit mask, though when she spots Clarke she makes excuses and walks away.

The man turns with a frustrated expression to her. “Can I help you?”

She smiles. “Yes, actually. I don’t believe I know your name.”

“Not sure I know yours either,” he says, lips curling at the corner and says nothing further.

“I’m Clarke,” she says, giving him a small curtsy. “I also go by your highness, but Clarke seems a bit more approachable, don’t you think?”

“A curtsy for a stranger, princess?” he says, though there’s a laugh in his voice. He bows, snappily, and there’s a real smile on his face when he’s upright again. “If you don’t know my identity, I’d prefer to keep it a secret.”

“I normally don’t like secrets, but maybe I’ll like this one.”

They stand there, smiling at one another. She doesn’t want to move from this spot, not yet. Violins swell in the distance and she can hear the patter of beautiful heels and sensible slippers on the floor, of oxfords, and brogues, silk and satin cloth brushing by one another, and yet she is transfixed by the smile this man is giving her.

“How about a nickname?” she posits. “I must have some sort of way to call you.”

“Bell, princess,” he says. “You can call me Bell.”

“Bell,” she echoes. “Bell, I’d prefer you not call me princess, but I already know it’s a battle I’ll lose.”

“Good call, princess.”

“Will you dance with me?” she asks. The music is continuing in the distance and she can feel the music calling to her. She last danced years ago, but dancing is not something she can easily forget. “Dancing is a two-person affair and you are the only partner I honestly desire.”

His smile fades and she swallows under his gaze. “This is a terrible idea,” he says.

“I’ve frequently been told that I have terrible ideas,” she says with a laugh. “You _can_ say no. There will be no beheadings for refusing to dance with the princess.”

“There are scarier things, princess,” he says and offers his arm. She takes it and they step to the dance floor. Her heels tap as they dance and his black mask, the singularly plain one amongst a sea of people, most of whom fawned over her for years before disdaining her as dour, reveals nothing beyond the expression in his eyes. She wonders how long it takes to fall in love.

 

 

Her feet are aching and Clarke slept but three hours. Bell abruptly left before midnight, but kissed her palm goodbye before he left. It is a promise. Clarke knows it is. It has to be. She needs to believe that he will return tonight.

Someone clears their throat and Clarke startles back into the present and away from sleep. Her eyelids feel immeasurably heavy as she stares at Kane. “What was that?”

Kane sighs. “Go back to bed, your highness,” he says. “We’ll get no work done on the new irrigation system with you like this.”

“But it’s important,” she protests. “I should be here for this. It is my plan.”

Wells puts a hand on her shoulder and stands. “Come on, Clarke, you’re useless right now.”

She stares up at Wells with a frown. “Must I?”

“Yes, you must,” he says and she sighs and stands. Her feet hurt from the weight. She’s wearing her most comfortable shoes, but even these feel too tight. Wells threads their arms together as they leave the room and she leans against him gratefully.

“I forgot how tiring balls are,” she says as they walk down the hallway.

“Especially when you’re so busy dancing with a stranger you forget to rest.”

“I wasn’t engrossed,” she says. “He’s— he’s different. He’s not like the rest.”

“Be careful,” Wells says and squeezes her arm. She squeezes back.

“I used to think about how much easier life would be if I had fallen in love with you,” she says thoughtfully. “There are no secrets between us, and I’m sure our parents would’ve been happy.”

“Your mother wouldn’t,” Wells replies and a moment later he disengages their arms. “My dad wanted me to— he has a meeting he wants me to sit in on, so I need to go.”

Wells doesn’t meet her eyes, and Clarke watches him leave. Clarke and Wells have always been much alike. Sensible, strong sense of justice, a fondness for flowers. When her dad was alive, they played; when her dad died, the distance between them became an unbridgeable chasm. She became more princess-like, and he became more like an advisor. They were still friends— _are_ still friends— but they’re more royalty and advisor than friends nowadays. Rubbing the arm that was laced with his absently, Clarke returns to her rooms.

In her receiving room, Lexa sits on a settee. One of her bodyguards stands behind her, and he eyes everything in the room suspiciously. When Clarke enters, Lexa smiles and gestures to the armchair opposite her. Standing straighter, and pissed that Lexa gestured as though this is her receiving room and not Clarke’s, she stands behind it and grasps the back of the chair.

“I’m surprised to find you in my rooms.”

“Ah,” Lexa says, eyes flickering to the empty seat and back to Clarke’s face. She smirks. “I see I broke some sort of protocol.”

“No such thing,” Clarke says with a smile. “I’m happy to see you, even though I believe you’re supposed to be in alliance talks with my mother right now. I hope they’re going well.”

Lexa shrugs. “She seems to like lip service and flattery, and I don’t care much for it. Your letters suggested you’d be more honest.”

Clarke sighs and, feeling her feet ache, takes the seat. “I can’t make any official promises, and I do have other duties.” Besides, Lexa’s too-eager interest in her is to be discouraged. Sometimes Clarke wonders if she shouldn’t take advantage of it, but her mother had been against such a tactic.

“Yet you’re here.” Lexa’s smile is enigmatic and it sets Clarke on edge. The Griffin family has learned over generations that there is no winning with the Clans. They always get what they want, one way or another.

“I came straight from a meeting in order to rest.” The implication is clear, but Lexa is going to either ignore it or make a comment that makes Clarke feel guilty. “The ball tired me.”

“I noticed you’re a proficient dancer. Do save me a dance tonight, the first one if possible.”

“And I noticed you didn’t dance, not once,” Clarke rebuts with a raised eyebrow. “If you’re willingly going to deign in some frivolous activities, it’d be my pleasure to dance with you.”

“You might have to give up a dance with that man of yours.”

“I don’t see how it’s giving up,” Clarke replies. “The dances were never his and are mine to give. Now, Commander, I know you didn’t come here to ask me to dance. You mentioned honesty?”

“Ah, yes. We were talking about how to deal with Weathervale and the Wallaces. I proposed going to war. I said so to your mother, but she didn’t seem too enthused…” Lexa frowns. “Neither do you. Your mother wouldn’t say why.”

“Commander—”

“Lexa, please.”

Clarke purses her lips in the best imitation of a smile she can give. “Lexa. You rode through our country for a time just recently, and I find it odd that the thought has not already occurred to someone as brilliant as you. Ark is not a country prepared for war. We are not a war-like people. We will, perhaps, provide aid of other sorts, such as food or doctors. But soldiers? That we do not have.”

Lexa’s face is blank as she stares at Clarke. She glances up at the bodyguard, but he’s still suspiciously glancing around her rooms and, in a fit of frustration, Clarke waves her hand at him. “You don’t need him here. Your paranoia might fit in the Clans lands, but in Ark they are out of place.”

The bodyguard now eyes Clarke suspiciously and she stares right back at him. Lexa breathes a short laugh, more bark-like than akin to laughter, and then snaps. “Gustus, you heard the princess.”

It is what she is, but the word princess immediately calls Bell to mind, his tanned hands, the calluses as well— the mobile mouth, unruly curls, and his freckles, tanned skin and the low timbre of his voice as he talks and his rich laughter. She made him laugh quite a bit, though some of them were more like chuckles than real laughter. She wants to make him laugh more.

Gustus leaves, and Lexa smiles. “Why don’t you have soldiers?”

“A better questions could be: why do you have soldiers? Our culture is not particularly aggressive.”

“Fine, then. If you do not chose to conquer our enemy, then what was the Griffin plan?”

Clarke shrugs. “Peace.”

Lexa laughs. “Oh, so naive, young princess.”

“We’re the same age, Lexa. Shall I start calling you young Commander? Would that please you? Or perhaps untested, maybe unexperienced.”

“You remind me of Costia in that way.”

“A compliment, I presume.”

“However,” Lexa continues, “peace is not easy. There has to be a better plan than just peace.”

“Maybe if you returned to talks with my mother, you could discuss the plan at greater length. I am not privy to it.”

“And what are your duties?”

“The treasury, the harvest. We’re working on a new irrigation system.”

Lexa hums and stands. Her hand rests on her sword hilt and she inclines her head. “I’ll see you this evening.”

Clarke stands as well, her feet screaming in protest. “I look forward to our dance.”

Lexa smiles honestly and it’s unnerving to see an honest expression on her face. Smiling back is reflexive, though it drops as soon as she strides out. There’s a bark in Trigedasleng to Gustus and then the sound of their heavy boots striding down their hall. Clarke falls back into her chair and wiggles her feet out of her shoes, accidentally scraping part of her ankle with her heel.

Her bed is through the door on the other side of the room. Nothing has ever felt so far.

 

 

Bellamy almost falls asleep while mopping the foyer. It’s thanks to a loud cough from Roma that he jerks up, the mop slipping from his fingers in the direction he was about to fall. Maybe, instead of sneaking into the second ball tonight, he should stay at the Murphy manor and get the work done, but the idea is quickly dismissed. Bellamy feels his mouth curl into a soft smile at the thought of the ball— more precisely, what the ball _entails_. It’s Clarke he wants to see again, the dark blue dress, cinched at her waist, and the secretive smiles she gave him all night. He doesn’t know what they mean, what secrets, exactly, she’s hid in the corners of her lips, in the curl of her hair and eyelashes, what it means when her eyes flutter closed, a red bitten lip slipping from teeth. He wants to unravel more than the secrets of her body, but what exactly she’s thinking when her eyes slide around the room, the smiles full of teeth she gives to other courtiers and what, exactly, they are commiserating about when they’ve left and she gives him a look.

It’s bad. Falling in love with the princess is not part of his plan. In fact, it’s _anti_ -plan. The plan will not work if he’s too engrossed with the princess (as he should call her, to put the appropriate distance between them— what would she think of him if she knew the truth?) to ensnare a different young maiden? He wonders, briefly, and tears the thought apart the moment it appears, what Octavia would say. She was always braver than he, less sentimental and harder to fool. He misses her.

His hands tighten around the mop as he pushes it around and ignores the look Roma shoots him. He is going to stay focused and find a way out of the Murphy household and find his sister. They’re going to live together, if not happily ever after or whatever bullshit he used to believe in as a kid. They will survive. It’s what Blakes do.

Roma tries to lure him into a conversation, but Bellamy doesn’t participate and gives her a tight smile before going to the next duty: checking over the carriage. After that it’s currying the horses, serving a pre-dinner snack, helping the Murphy’s dress. And then the others are dismissed, and Bellamy is left alone in the grand ballroom of the Murphy house. He knows the place intimately, the cracks in the corners, how the bathroom faucets need caulking and the Murphy’s will never realize through not knowing what caulking is. Bellamy can still recall with near perfect clarity what the place looked like when he was first brought in; the trend at the time was huge, velvet draperies over everything. The ballroom had velvet cloth hanging on every wall in the Murphy colors: maroon and brown. It had been beautiful but dimly lit.

The velvet is gone and other trends had passed through these rooms: the three years of nature, cycling through vines, flowers, and then rocks; the frescoes the Murphy’s paid an obscene amount for and then got rid of the moment the fad ended; for one season, everyone dressed like animals. It had been a difficult balance between wanting to look good and realism. John Murphy’s preferred animal had been a panther, but Bellamy thought coyote would have been better. The trend now is columns, and the palace had columns. They were more graceful than the ones in the Murphy’s ballroom; the ones here had been erected with too much haste, the cracks from joining the rocks visible, without the elaborate carvings the columns in the palace have.

Bellamy passes through the servants door and follows the corridor to the kitchen, and then leans against the frame as he looks out into the courtyard. Bess yowls across from him and bats at what could either be a mouse or some hay. He pushes through to check, and that’s when the fairy godmother appears. Or, really, his fairy godfather. It sounds clunkier than godmother.

“Bellamy! So good to meet you!” Bellamy raises an eyebrow and squats to check on Bess and discovers a long piece of thread stuck in her claws.

“Right, well then, how was last night? I was busy with some other wishes, but, believe me, I wished I were here.”

“Aren’t you a fairy godmother?” he asks and Pokey leaps down from a barrel in a corner and stretches, moving towards the commotion. “Aren’t wishes your thing?”

“We can’t grant our own,” Wick says with a scandalized tone. “That’s preposterous. What’s the point of granting your own wish?”

Bellamy doesn’t reply, and Wick swallows before moving towards him. “Anyways, Raven do a good job? I heard you caught the princess’s eye.”

“I’m not interested in the princess,” Bellamy lies. “I want someone less conspicuous.”

Wick frowns. “That’s… The princess is your best bet, you know.”

“Excuse me? My best bet— according to who?”

Wick stares levelly at him, and Bellamy takes in the slicked back blonde hair, the narrow nose and tanned skin. Where are fairy godparents from to have tan skin? Somewhere warm and summery, he bets, like the Clan Lands. Ark has fairly warm summers, but the Clan Lands have nearly year-long summers.

“That doesn’t matter,” he says.

Bellamy bets it was one of the questions that he won’t get answers for, like Raven told him. “So you’re here to pretty me up, right? Let’s get on with it?”

Wick looks sad, but it’s only a brief moment, and then he’s sporting a wicked grin and waves around a thick branch that might be oak. “You like the tux from yesterday?” Without waiting for an answer, Wick waves the wand and Bellamy’s clothes change from his tattered work clothes to a tux similar to yesterday’s. A deep purple orchid is tucked in his lapel. In a few more moments, Wick turns a pumpkin into a carriage and Bellamy despairs at having any once they ripen. However, if all goes well, he won’t have to worry about ripe pumpkins, nor the vegetable garden.

Midnight mewls with displeasure at the disruption, stalking into the courtyard, and Bellamy’s not sure he likes the smirk on Wick’s face as Bellamy’s cats are turned into horses again. Midnight shakes his head and Bellamy whispers soothing words into his ears, running a hand down his long neck. Midnight does not appear mollified, but Pokey and Katty both seem taken with their forms, prancing around the courtyard, hooves clacking upon the stone.

“Your carriage awaits,” Wick says. 

“My mask?” he asks and Wick stares at him for a moment.

“A mask, for a face like that?”

Bellamy scowls. “Raven didn’t ask any questions,” he mutters, then continues in a normal tone, “it’s a masquerade ball. All three nights are. I require a mask.”

“That’s stupid,” Wick says, tapping his wand in one hand. “Why would the princess want to marry someone without knowing what they look like?”

For a moment, Bellamy has to remember that that’s what the balls are actually for. Clarke— _the princess_ needs to find a husband. It hadn’t seemed that way last night, but how well does Bellamy know her? “Maybe that’s the point,” he says, thoughtfully. “So she gets to know them, and not their appearance.”

Wick scoffs, but then waves his wand and Bellamy feels the ties wrap around his skull and deftly knot in the back. “Plain black, like Raven did last night. She always had a flair for the dramatic, so it’s a little unusual.”

“She said it was like me, straight-forward and hides stains.”

Wick smiles softly. “That sounds like her.” Bellamy stares at Wick in bemusement because, how, exactly, does that sound like Raven? How does that sound like anybody? “Well, get on, no one waits for anyone at a ball.”

Bellamy is still not sure what to feel, exactly, about this whole fairy godparent thing, but he has a way to the ball and that is what matters. A gullible lady, a hasty marriage, and a search for his sister. That’s what this is about. Though, as he flicks the reins and his cat-horses start moving, he thinks about Clarke’s golden hair and how her lips curve at the corner, sly like a cat.

He slips in amidst a crowd of others, most likely nobles, if the easy way they dismiss servants passing by with flutes of champagne mean anything. Clarke is standing in the front again in a lavender dress, the queen nearby, and other folk Clarke said were Clans people last night. For a split-second, Bellamy thinks Clarke’s eyes land on him, but he quickly turns away. He’s here for a quick marriage, for _freedom_. He can’t get distracted by Clarke. The princess means trouble, a spotlight, and a trade of one pair of manacles for another.

The music starts, and Bellamy finds that an impossible task. Clarke is being led onto the dance floor by the Clans woman, same height as Clarke, her hair in elaborate braids that fall down her back. Her boots are heavy and Bellamy knows that she won’t be quick enough on her feet to avoid tromping all over Clarke’s. He’s wrong, as she proves to be as graceful as Clarke, and he turns away with disgust at himself.

“It’s none of my business,” he mutters, brushing by couples walking to the dance floor. “None of my business.”

“What’s not your business?” someone asks and Bellamy turns to snap that it’s none of _their_ business, when he notices that it was a her, hair piled on top of her head, her mask a faint pink and heavily jeweled. A rich her, then.

Bellamy smiles with all of his charm. “Nothing much. I see you don’t have a partner. May I interest you in a dance?”

She smiles, and he thinks that she might be blushing— or it could be that her pale skin is flushing due to the heat of the room. “Yes, please. I’d like that very much.”

He offers her his arm and she takes it, her rose dress whispering on the floor as they walk to the other dancing couples. Bellamy avoids looking at Clarke and is, for the most part, successful. But then they move into his line of vision, and he abruptly spins his partner. She laughs, not knowing why he had done it, and is smiling when she faces him once more.

This isn’t his style. Octavia wouldn’t like him doing this— Bellamy pushes that thought far, far away, into the corner he stores all thoughts of Octavia, all the longing to see his sister again. In the corner are his memories of his childhood pre-Murphy’s, of his mom who gave Octavia piggy-back rides and then of her lying in bed, sick, and Bellamy giving his sister the same piggy-back rides around her room. His dad read aloud to them and told Bellamy that, one day, he would take over the business, inherit everything and carry on the proud Blake name.

He pushes the memories away again as the musicians wind the dance to an end.

“That was lovely,” she says, putting her weight on him as she links their arms together.

“It was my pleasure,” he replies and notices the Clans woman bowing before returning to the dais. Another Clans person stands there and they confer over something, and Clarke glances around the ballroom and for a moment Bellamy allows himself to wish that she’s looking for him.

Then John Murphy swoops in, Bellamy able to recognize him by the maroon and glittering clothes and mask, and Clarke gives him a stilted smile. She gives a small curtsy and he gives a deep bow; then she offers him her hand and he kisses it before leading her into the next dance. Next to Bellamy, his partner continues to chatter, and Bellamy can only give half an ear to her introduction, barely catching her name— Fox— before he is leading her back onto the dance floor because his blood boils at the sight of one of his greatest tormentors dancing with someone he might already be half in love with.

At the right moment, Bellamy cuts through their dance and leaves Murphy to dance with Fox. It’s a bad decision, he should really be continuing to charm Fox, to convince her that she’s in love with him, but that sits as poorly with him as allowing Murphy to continue touching Clarke does.

“You shouldn’t let someone like him touch you, princess” he whispers as Clarke’s eyes widen, her mouth dropping slightly before curving into delighted grin.

“You’re one to judge, aren’t you, Bell.” Her tone is teasing and when he turns her, her hair brushes his skin and his heart beats faster. “You won’t even tell me your name.”

“My identity isn’t important,” he says dismissively and grins when she manages to give him a hard tap on his bicep as she passes him in the dance.

She grins, teeth flashing, and Bellamy’s more than sure he’s half in love. In fact, he might be totally in love, and he’ll have to admit so to Wick tomorrow night. “I thought youhadn’t come,” she says to him after they have danced and danced, his feet aching in the unfamiliar shoes. They moved to the side of the ballroom and snagged two glasses of wine. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“Why, princess,” he says, with a hand to his heart. “Were you looking for me? I’m flattered.”

Her eyes dance, and Bellamy can’t control how damn happy he feels. “I saw you dance with the Clans woman,” he says, because he wants to know what was going on, and Clarke’s smile turns wry and she rolls her eyes.

“Clans people are impossible to deal with,” she huffs and takes another sip of her wine. “You don’t know how they do it, but somehow, they get what they want and you’re left wondering how it happened.”

“Is that what happened?” he asks, body uncomfortably tense. “She talked you in circles?”

She eyes him over her wine. “I’ll tell you if you admit you’re jealous.”

Bellamy stares at her and steps closer. She doesn’t step away, chin jutting up to meet his gaze. He wants to kiss her, but this is not the place for such a thing. There are people all around them and she is the crown princess. He settles for trailing the nail of a finger down her jawline, cup her chin then run down the other side of her jaw and finally rests his hand at her neck.

“It’s an easy thing to admit,” he says. Her eyes haven’t left his. “Of course I’m jealous.”

She smiles and curls her hand around his wrist, fingertips resting at his pulse. “I admire your frankness, if not the liberty you took in touching me.”

She’s serious. He recalls, in a hot, panicked flush, the first time the Murphy’s had lent him to another. He had been fourteen, voice occasionally cracking, and scrapes on his cheeks and neck because no one taught him how to shave though being clean-shaven was required. No one had asked to touch him then, nor all the other times since. Bellamy moves his hand away, the warmth of her skin suddenly burning him and backs away. He can’t meet her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t— I didn’t think.”

Her blue eyes are curious, and her fingers remained curled around his wrist. “You meant no harm.”

“But I could have.” He feels sick, and the warmth she offers only makes him sicker.

“But you didn’t.”

“The result has no bearing on the lack of consent,” he snaps and jerks his hand hard enough that her fingers release him in surprise.

“Bell—” she calls as he takes a step back. A bell, somewhere in the palace, rings half-past eleven.

“I’ll be back tomorrow night,” he says, his stomach still sick, and everything unraveling before him. “Until then.” He bows to the princess in her beautiful lavender gown, a tiara resting gently in her hair and eyes wide behind her mask as they watch him. Clarke doesn’t follow him, and he has almost escaped the palace when someone grabs his shoulder, hard, digging into soft flesh at his neck. It’s John Murphy.  
“I’ll get you for interrupting my dance,” Murphy snarls and Bellamy grabs his young master’s hand, nails digging harder into his flesh for a moment before Murphy releases him.

“Don’t touch me,” he says, pitching his voice low, and leaves while Murphy sputters behind him.

 

 

The ball is boring without Bell, tedious, interminable, and the other men and women she dance with are poor dancers. Clarke leaves early, gown swishing on the ground, the low heels tapping a rapid staccato beat as she hurries down corridors to escape. Lexa had been a fine partner, but she would rather avoid dancing with her again. And Bell— Clarke skirts the man in her mind and slips into her rooms. She traverses her receiving room, the light dim but the settee where Lexa had sat earlier today still visible, and pushes through to her bedroom. It’s dark, and Clarke searches for a lamp to light the room. The shades are drawn, and Clarke draws them open a little to glance down into the garden below.

There are some couples walking on the smooth; brick paths and lights illuminate their way. Beyond the courtyard garden are hedges, and beyond that there’s a vegetable garden, then a forest. The vegetables in the garden are better protected than the palace, with small fences and frames to protect the food from wildlife. There is no fence around the palace and, with no fence, there is no gate.

Clarke would deny if it asked, but Lexa’s words weigh heavily on her mind. _Peace is not easy_ , she had said earlier, and during their dance she had talked of how the Clans had been united under one banner via war. And now, through use of war, they were at peace. It sits badly with Clarke, because they had tried diplomacy with Weathervale for years and have yet to achieve any sort of result. She suddenly, impetuously, wishes she could ask Bell. He’s clever, and she bets that he would know, if not about what to do about Weathervale, how to handle Lexa. Clarke listens with too open a heart.

There is a knock on her door and Clarke calls out an absent, “Yes?”

The door opens a crack, and her mother steps in. The lamplight makes her crown shine brighter and diamond earrings sparkle. “You left early,” she comments, crossing the room to join Clarke at the window.

“I lost interest.”

Abby sighs. “That young man you danced with last night left early.”

Her hand twitches on the drapes and she shuts them, the garden lights and couples walking below vanishing from sight; she continues to stare in the direction, eyes unfocused as she stares at the dark damask.

“I don’t approve,” Abby says. “I don’t think he’s right for you.”

“Mother,” Clarke says heavily. “Is there _anyone_ you approve of?”

Abby is quiet, and Clarke jerks back as her mother’s hands come up to cup her daughter’s face. One hand goes to smooth a loose strand of hair back and behind her ears. Abby smiles, softly, and with a tinge of sadness. Seeing it makes Clarke feel uncomfortable. “You’re right. I don’t think there’s anyone out there good enough for you.”

Clarke searches her mother’s eyes, not sure what she’s looking for. She can see her cheekbones, nose, and chin in her mother, and Clarke knows she takes more after her dad’s mother than anyone. She never met the woman, but her blonde hair is the same tone, blue eyes more similar than Clarke’s to Abby’s or Jake’s. Clarke used to wish she looked more like her dad and then, after his death when looking at his portrait became too painful, she wished she looked more like her mother.

“However,” Abby continues. “I know that young man isn’t right. You don’t even know his name.”

Clarke moves back, stung. She had only told Wells about that and apparently he had told her mother. “Wells told you that?”

“He’s only looking out for you,” Abby says, frowning. “And has been, ever since you were children.”

She takes her tiara off and moves to her chest to put it down. “I’m going to bed. Please leave.”

Her mother’s gown rustles on the carpet and she hears the door open, close, and then Clarke’s alone. She undos her curls, takes off her dress, shoes, other jewelry, until she’s standing bare in her room. There’s a slight breeze, and she shivers as she slips into her pajamas. She wonders about Bell and hopes he’s okay and that maybe, possibly, he’s thinking of her like she’s thinking of him.

 

 

The chores are finished sometime before two in the morning, and Bellamy falls into bed,feet over the edge, and has the deepest sleep ever since his parents died. The sun wakes him up and, for once, Bellamy looks forward to the day. He had left Clarke at an awkward moment, but he’s sure he can somehow make it up to her tonight because he’s going again. He’s sure Wick will be pleased, Raven too. He’s stopped deluding himself that he’s going for any reason other than meeting the princess— Clarke, he supposes he should actually call her.

He greets Miller cheerfully, and Roma blushes when he greets her with a warm smile. Miller gives him the breakfast tray with a wary eye, but warms up quickly to Bellamy’s unprecedented friendliness. “Spat in his juice this morning,” he says with a wink, and Bellamy answers with a grin and his own wink.

“Our secret,” he says and takes the tray. He goes up the stairs and knocks on the door and can hardly believe it when John answers, a smug smirk on his face. “Your breakfast, sir,” Bellamy says, keeping his eyes away, because he learned the lesson not to look them in the eye a long time ago.

John opens the door further and a surreptitious glance shows that he opened the curtains on his own, and even has clothes laid out for himself. Bellamy is baffled by the change in the five-year strong routine.

“Want to hear about the balls the past couple nights?” John asks, and Bellamy puts the tray down with a fast-beating heart. It’s not possible that John recognized Bellamy as the one who cut his dance with Clarke short— but, Bellamy realizes with dawning horror, it is. It’s not like his hair was covered, nor half his face, his stature. John could have recognized him.

“I danced with the princess,” John says without waiting for a reply, shrugging his shirt off. “In fact, I danced with her most of the night. I’m pretty sure she’s half in love with me already.”

Bellamy stands by the door, hands clasped behind him because he’s furious at the blatant lies John’s telling. He had half a dance, one that Bellamy himself interrupted— but he stays quiet. He has no other choice. “Was she beautiful?” he asks instead.

John shrugs, tossing the night-shirt onto his bed. He grabs his own tunic without it being handed to him; it’s strange behavior, but Bellamy doesn’t want to question it. “She’s alright.”

Bellamy’s hands tighten further, to the point of pain. He says nothing further and tries to remain impassive as John watches him sharply, tunic dangling from his hands.

“That’s right,” John continues. “You’ve never seen the princess, have you? Would you like me to bring home a lock of hair for you? I’d ask the princess special, just for you.”

His blood is thrumming with anger, but Bellamy manages a subservient smile and a duck of his head. “I’m quite alright, sir. I don’t need such a thing.”

John continues watching him, and Bellamy starts to twitch. “Dismissed,” John finally says and Bellamy flees.

As the day progresses, he can’t figure out why John told him they danced anyways. What was the point? Why brag to a lowly servant, a _slave_ , about the princess? It’s possible that John has suspicions about his identity, but why not punish him if there was the slightest suspicion? When ten, they had whipped him because they wanted to believe that he was stealing eggs from the hens, and not the other servants. What was he going to do with a few eggs? It’s not like he had his own home. They are aggressive in their pursuit of desires, and sometimes the master ordered Bellamy whipped for nothing more than his own pleasure.

John Murphy doesn’t talk to him again the whole day, and Bellamy lays his suspicions to rest.

 

 

The rose in his lapel is red, deep and vibrant, and it sits wrong with Bellamy. He has somehow managed to match Clarke in some way the past two nights, but it’s artifice, and Bellamy has felt his identity become more and more paper-thin and fake. Clarke doesn’t know his name, and she knows little more than him than how well they dance together. She doesn’t even know that his mom taught him to dance before she fell ill and, after their deaths when he was seven, he taught himself by memorizing steps from Murphy parties. His dancing was hard won, but hardly his.

“I don’t want a rose,” he says, taking it out. There are still a few thorns on the stem and one pricks his thumb. He sucks his thumb for the drop of blood and hands the flower to Wick, who takes it with a frown.

“But a rose is perfect— it’s red, the color of love, and matches her dress. You have to wear it.”

Wick doesn’t take the flower, and Bellamy tosses it to the ground. “I’m not wearing a rose,” he says and goes to the garden. There are some wildflowers, not many due to the gradual drop in temperature with the coming of winter, but Bellamy finds a dandelion. A petal is missing, but that doesn’t matter. He picks it and tucks it into his lapel, the yellow showing bright against the black tux. Wick looks distressed when he sees the flower.

“A weed? Is that the image you want to give?”

“That makes it all the more appropriate, wouldn’t you say? I’m not some nobleman, nor am I rich. A dandelion is perfect.”

Wick sighs. “You’re so damn honest it’s frustrating.”

Bellamy raises an eyebrow. “Thanks,” he says dryly. “Though I can’t say the same for you.” Before he boards the carriage, Wick suddenly hugs him. Surprised, Bellamy stands there, and Wick moves away before he could return the gesture.  
“You deserve her,” he says gruffly. “Try not to mess it up, okay?” Bellamy bemusedly nods and then there’s a small pop noise and Wick is gone. Midnight gives a snort at the disappearance, and Bellamy nods in agreement, but gets on the carriage and his horses take him to the palace.

The ballroom is done up even grander than before, with large flower garlands festooning the walls. The food is more sumptuous, and the champagne and other drinks are poured with greater liberty. When Clarke spots him, immediately making a beeline towards him, her cheeks are flushed and her wide wine-red skirts rustle. 

“Bell,” she says and hugs him. He reacts more quickly this time, and hugs her back, hands settling at her hips when she pulls away. She’s smirking and throws a glance towards the dais where the queen is, and Bellamy’s brow furrows.

“I’m happy to see you too, princess.”

“I’d like you to meet my mother,” she says, her hands curving around his forearms, fingers rounding above his elbows.

Bellamy skirts a look towards the dais and, yeah, the queen is totally looking this way, though he can’t make out her expression. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks. “I mean— she’s the queen. I’m a nobody.”

Clarke’s hands tighten, and then they’re round his head, nails digging into his scalp. He has no choice but to look at her and the sudden fury in her eyes. “You aren’t a nobody,” she says. “You’re Bell, and you’re important.”

People start staring, and Bellamy has to do something about this awkward pose, the princess’s hands on his face and the tension in her body. “Fine, I get it,” he says awkwardly. “Can you let go?”

Her lips purse and she brings his face down closer to hers, his back bending unpleasantly. Their noses are almost touching and he’s too scared to breathe. “No, because I don’t think you get it. I might not know your name, but that doesn’t change the fact that you are you, and that person is important and incredibly special.”

Bellamy nods, because he feels as though he has no choice but to agree with her looking so fierce, and he can’t meet her eyes when she lets go, grabbing his hand and pulling him along towards the queen. He stumbles, once, but Clarke’s hand doesn’t allow him to catch his bearings and he nearly falls on his face when he meant to climb the stair to reach the queen.

Clarke snorts, and he gives her an unhappy look as the queen surveys him. For a moment, Bellamy forgets his manners, but is soon bowing deeply in deference. “Your majesty,” he murmurs.

“He’s never this polite to me,” Clarke says as he straightens. The queen looks tired and as though this is the last thing she wants to be doing. It makes two of them, Bellamy thinks, as Clarke gestures him closer. “Mother, this is Bell. Bell, my mother.”

“I know who your mother is,” Bellamy says drily. “It’s kind of hard not to know.”

A glimmer of a smile appears on the queens face; it’s an unexpected victory for a battle he hadn’t known he was fighting. “Bell, is it? An unusual name.”

“It’s more of a nickname,” he says. “My sister used to call me Bell.” The thought makes his heart freeze for a moment, a chill running through his body. He’s given up his sister, and Bellamy’s not sure he will ever forgive himself for it. This brief dalliance will be over at midnight, when he rushes home and the magic comes undone. He will work under the Murphy’s for the rest of his life, through John’s marriage and his kids, a cycle of cruelty from which escape is impossible.

“I bet she’s a beautiful young lady,” the Queen says. Bellamy smiles awkwardly, because there’s no good way to respond to such a statement. ‘My sister is gone’ or ‘I hope so too’ or— what? He doubts the Murphy’s even remember he has a sister.

“So this is the man,” a woman says, and it’s the Clans woman from the previous night. Bellamy bows to her. “Clarke, you could do so much better. You should come home with me, and I’ll show you how to do things properly.”

“Excuse me?” Bellamy asks, though he thought he’d been conditioned to not speak back. It’s a low-burning jealousy, that she was as graceful as Clarke, that she gets to be free to do as she pleases. Those hands touched Clarke’s hips. “Pardon me, but I believe it’s rude to insult a person you don’t know.”

Clarke curves her arm around his and pats his hand. “I apologize, Lexa,” she says with a contrite smile. “But I promised him a dance, and the musicians look like they’re going to resume this moment, so excuse us.”

Lexa’s eyes are narrowed, but she lets them go. “You should be more careful,” Clarke says to him as they step off the dais and rejoin the throng of party-goers. “She’s the Clans Commander.”

“But,” Bellamy says, as he gives Clarke a perfunctory bow before the dancing is to begin. Her return curtsy is hasty, but still elegant. “The real question is how does she know who I am.” He raises an eyebrow, and Clarke rolls her eyes as she steps forward, hands clasping as they start dancing.

“It did not go unnoticed that I danced mostly with you the first night.”

“And the second night, right?”

“You’re full of yourself,” she says, slapping his bicep lightly. “Let out a little air or you might pop.”

He grins and spins her. “I’m pleased to hear you’re talking of me. Does that mean I’m in your heart, even just a little, princess?”

She doesn’t reply, just demands a dip, and they dance several more dances: a polka, a gavotte, and then a waltz, slow and elegant, and he relishes the feel of her hand in his, and how his hand curves around her waist. “Come with me,” she says, tugging on his hand, when the waltz is finished, a violin playing one last, long note. Their fingers soon slip together as he catches up with her. Her smile is so bright it makes his heart ache, because this is over tonight. Everything is over tonight. He won’t see that bright smile again, won’t be the cause of it, won’t feel her slim hand in his again, her skin cold, but soft, and— it all ends, tonight. He should tell her.

“This is my favorite garden,” she says, after passing through several rooms with other party-goers, though emptier than the ballroom, and pushing through to the outdoors. There’s a chill in the air, but there are still a few other couples out here. One of them sits on a stone bench, heads bent towards each other and occasionally kissing softly. “It’s usually emptier,” Clarke confides in a low voice, pulling him further along. “And, over there, beyond that hedge is a vegetable garden, with cucumbers and peppers, beans and more.”

“It’s lovely,” he says, because he can see the work put into the pathways, the dim torches someone must have lit and must continue maintaining all through the night and previous nights. There are low grasses by the walkway, and perennials that cost a fortune in a design. There’s a rose bush, not in bloom, other flowers he can’t name, and all he can think of is how the people who created this beauty with their hands must love this place.

“Want to see the vegetables?” she asks, though when Bellamy glances at her, she’s looking behind them, upwards, towards the second floor of the palace.

“What,” he asks, following her gaze to the darkened windows. “Is your room up there or something?”

She jerks away, surprise etched on her face. “How—”

He laughs and pulls her close again, one arm encircling her waist, bodies pressing against each other. He leans forward, bends a little and presses his forehead against hers. “For a princess, you have a terrible poker face.”

She flushes, the color rising apparent even in the dim lighting. He’s delighted. “Shut it, you,” she hisses, reaching a hand to his shoulder to give him a light push. It’s weak, and they don’t move apart. “You’re terrible.” 

He smiles, softly, gently, and drinks in her face. She’s so lovely, slim nose, the mole above her lips on the left side of her face. She blinks, blue eyes roving his face. This is his last chance for happiness, but it isn’t, really now, is it? He could, technically, finish this unintentional seduction of the princess, have her marry him and save him from the Murphy family, but he can’t. He came to trick a rich woman to marry him, and now that he’s in love, he can’t complete it. The princess is out of his league, too good for him. The Murphy’s are heartless, and he was raised with bruises, scrapes and cruelty, yet his heart was always a Blake heart, strong and compassionate. They tried to beat it out of him, but they couldn’t. Now, here he is, incapable of carrying out an act of trickery to save himself because his heart would bleed through the deception. He couldn’t trick her, not like that. He loves her too much.

“You’re awfully close,” she whispers, and lifts her chin up so their lips align. Their lips hover over each other, and Bellamy greedily drinks her in, her smell, her warmth, the way wine-red enhances her coloring. Then he takes a step back and bows shallowly.

“I’m sorry, princess,” he says, forces a charming grin like he has in the past, for all the nobles the Murphy’s loaned him to. “In my stead, please take this flower.” He pulls the dandelion from his breast pocket and presents it to her.

She’s confused— of course she’s confused, there’s no way this could make sense to her— and she takes the dandelion carefully, like it’s a treasure. “Bell, it’s lovely,” she says. “I like yellow.”

“It’s a weed,” Bellamy mutters, before offering his arm to her. “I’d like one more dance, if you please.”

“You say that as if we won’t meet again,” she says, taking his arm, and they walk back to the main ballroom, out of the garden, through the sparsely populated rooms, and into the fray.

He’s distracted, snatches a glass of champagne for Clarke, and then downs one for himself. He asked Clarke for one more dance, but his heart isn’t in it. He just wants to return home, have his cats return to normal, and curl up with Midnight on the dirty cobblestone courtyard. It’s where he, technically, belongs. Raven and Wick magicked him up these clothes, the mask, but it’s not who he is. He’s a slave, one with a dirty past.

But he leads Clarke onto the dance floor, and she smiles at him sunnily, and she’ll likely just remember him fondly, if at all. She might marry someone from the Clans, maybe the Clans woman from before. He doesn’t know, and he tells himself not to care.

It’s a pavane, slower than the waltz earlier, less elegance and more pomp. He dances absently, knowing this is his last dance with Clarke, yet unable to focus on her. The dance ends, and he bows as required, and when he stands he feels someone working at the tie of his mask.

He’s too slow, a hand reaching behind his head too late, and the mask tumbles to the floor, and someone pushes him around. Bellamy stumbles, and then John Murphy’s angry face is in front of him, lips curling in fury. “You,” he growls. “I should have known.”

Clarke is by them in a moment, reaching out to Bellamy. “Bell, what’s—”

“Take no notice of him, princess,” John says, and Bellamy’s heart sinks. He should have said something earlier, revealed the truth in a manner of his choosing, instead of this disaster. “You’re best off forgetting him, since he’s a slave and all. I have no idea how he even—”

Bellamy doesn’t wait for John to finish his sentence before he’s sprinting away, towards the front gates, where his pumpkin carriage with his false horses waits. There are moments of shouting, gasps and murmurs as he pushes through the people in the ballroom in his haste.

He ascends the landing and glances towards where he last saw Clarke. She’s arguing with Murphy, attempting to escape, and he can see the Clans woman approaching them, one eye cast curiously towards him. This is not how he wanted his last sight of this ballroom to be, but it is the last sight he’ll get.

The clock starts striking, the first low clang a grave reminder of how limited his time is. It’s midnight; Bellamy feels it in his gut. It’s midnight, and his time is up. He doesn’t look behind him once more as he runs from the palace, hastening the horses for a speedy getaway. It turns midnight before he arrives to the Murphy house, and the cats follow him, meowing loudly, as he walks the last of the distance. The Murphy’s are likely already home, and it is another reminder of the catastrophe of his life.

 

 

There’s a meeting, one of the final meetings of drawing up the treaty between Ark and the Clans, and Clarke doesn’t know how she even got dressed. The maids were sweet, she knows, but they must have picked out the dress she’s wearing now. It’s a soft yellow, and it had been her dad’s favorite color. The dandelion last night had been yellow, but the flower had been trampled last night when she had been arguing with Murphy. Sitting at the table, hardly listening to the others around her, anger burns through her at the memory. He had held her back, jerked on her so hard the flower had fallen from her hair.

Lexa had come striding over, and Wells was soon there as well, and with their help she had escaped John Murphy. However, it had been too late, Bell’s had been carriage long gone. The night had been dark, only the lampposts along the drive shedding any light. Wells had soon reached her and in his hand was the simple, black mask Bell had worn. It had been soft, and her hand had curled tight around the fabric, strings dangling from clenched fingers.

“Clarke?” Thelonius says, and Clarke’s anger is still thrumming in her veins and it’s hard not to snap.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I was distracted. What was that?”

Her mother is watching her, tired, so tired, and Lexa’s eyes are calculating. “I believe all the dancing from the previous few nights have tired the princess,” Lexa says. “How about we adjourn for today. I doubt a single day will make a large difference in the scheme of things.”

Her blood burns at the insinuation that she can’t handle the meeting right now, but it’s too true for her to talk back. She can hardly handle Lexa on a good day, and this is most definitely not a good day.

Clarke is confused, and she doesn’t know how to puzzle out the events of last night. “I wouldn’t want to hold up the proceedings, so I’ll excuse myself. Please, continue.”

Wells follows her out, ignoring the sharp call from his father. “You’re in a fine mood today,” he says as they stroll along the corridors. She’s not sure where she’s going, because she doesn’t want to go to her rooms because Lexa will likely come looking for her there. The same with her office.

“I— What do I _do_ , Wells?” she asks, and her hands pushed unbidden at a door and they’re outside, in her favorite garden. “I’m so— what was Murphy even saying, last night?”

“He was ranting nonsense, mostly,” Wells says companionably, and he leads her to one of the stone benches. It hurts to be in this garden, because it wasn’t so long ago that she was _so sure_ that she and Bell had some sort of connection. They had nearly kissed, though his last-minute avoidance should have been a hint of some sort. “Apparently he’s a slave, and so on in that vein. The Murphy’s are more traditional, you know.

Clarke sighs, rubbing her forehead and leans against Wells. Traditional, meaning more like her grandparents, with greater economic disparity and social stratification. Her dad had been more idealistic, married who he wanted to, and set about trying to change Ark the moment he had a modicum of power. “I miss our childhood, you know. Things were simpler.”

Wells wraps an arm around her and squeezes her shoulder. “Our childhood was incredibly insulated, and you know that.”

“I know, I know. But back then my dad was alive, Weathervale wasn’t breathing down our necks, and I didn’t have to worry about my mother or anyone else trying to marry me off.”

Wells hums. “You don't sound like the Clarke Griffin I know.”

“Wells—” Clarke starts, moving away, but Wells holds a hand up and Clarke recognizes the sign to listen.

“You’ve been moping, Clarke. _Moping_. The last time I saw you this ineffectual was when your dad died.”

“That’s not fair," she says.

“The Queen is in that room, _incapable_ of dealing with Lexa and her people. The only one that has gotten anywhere with that woman is you, Clarke, and you’ve been moping after that boy from the ball. We still have to finish the irrigation plan, the harvest is starting soon, and we aren’t prepared. Get your act together.”

A breeze blows through the garden, gentle. A gardener comes out from the palace and bows before heading behind the hedge to the vegetable garden. She can hear him working, the sounds of clippers and gushing water when he turns the hose on. She closes her eyes. Maybe there will be a fresh salad at dinner tonight.

“I’m in love, Wells,” she says quietly, sitting straight, staring across the garden. She can spot where she stood with Bell last night. "Will I throw that chance of personal happiness away? I’m willing to dedicate my life to my country, the greatest love of my life, but what about when I return to my rooms at night? What about then— when I’m no longer royalty, but a woman? My dad married my mother in part for that.”

Wells doesn’t say anything.

“My grandparents forbade him from marrying her, but he believed in his heart and followed it. It’s why this whole— this thing about marrying with my mother is hard, because that’s not what she had. I want to follow my heart, want to rule like my dad did. He was popular, successful with his reform, and why can’t I be like that?”

“It was under his rule that relations with Weathervane deteriorated.”

Clarke snorts. “Yes. What a hardship. The Wallace’s are callous rulers. Their freed people are happy, but they have a large slave population who are starving and treated poorly. Is it so bad that we aren’t on good terms with them? Relations deteriorated because my dad never allowed them to bring their slaves here.”

Wells chuckles and slings an arm around her shoulders. “You do realize you have your answer, don’t you?”

Clarke shrugs, turns to look at him. The face of her best friend is tired, larger eye bags than hers, fine wrinkles between his eyes. He’s been working hard, as always. He likely hadn’t enjoyed the balls. “Not quite.”

“You said it yourself. Follow your heart.” He squeezes her close for a moment before standing. “Let me know what your plan is.”

She stares after him as he leaves, and then the gardener bows shortly to her before smiling. “Your highness, we have some late tomatoes. Would you care for some?”

There are some cherry tomatoes, some of them still a little green, and larger heirloom and roma tomatoes. “Yes, thank you.” She scoops up some of the cherry tomatoes, and the gardener goes on his way.

Follow her heart, huh. She wonders what the best way is.

Lexa is sitting at her office desk, legs propped on the surface, when Clarke returns indoors. “The prodigal princess returns,” she says with a sharp smile.

“Were you going through my paperwork?” Clarke asks. She knows she should be angry, or frustrated, but she’s just amused. The talk with Wells, and then simply sitting in the garden, enjoying the autumn breeze, relaxed her. She had been nervous expecting Lexa and her entourage, and she hadn’t been able to relax because of the meetings and the balls. Now that the balls are over and that Clarke has a plan, it’s easier to see the childishness behind Lexa’s actions. She just wants attention from Clarke, much like a puppy.

“No, I wasn’t.” She drags her feet off the desk and Clarke walks over and inspects the surface of the desk.

“You got dirt on it,” she scolds and brushes it off. “How can I help?”

Lexa’s face brightens. “You’re going to chase the boy, aren’t you. I’d like to see this resolved.”

Clarke laughs, leans against her desk. “I thought you didn’t like him?”

“I don’t,” Lexa says with a dismissive shrug. “But you like him, and I like you.”

Lexa looks at ease in Clarke’s chair, which had been her dad’s originally. She doesn’t like Lexa sitting in it. “If you want to help so bad, you have to cooperate with my mother more. The balking is getting tiresome.”

The offer is paltry, but Lexa grins. “Add a condition where you visit the Clans, and I promise to be more cooperative.”

Clarke smiles. “Shall we go see her now?”

Before heading to her mother’s office, Clarke and Lexa stop by the room of legislation to borrow a clerk. The clerk, middle-aged, follows him to her mother’s office, the official office of the monarchy, with frontward windows that have a sweeping view of the nearby town and the forests beyond. Her mother is at her desk, the surface clear, and in conversation with Jaha and Kane.

“Mother,” Clarke says, and the conversation stops.

“Clake, Commander,” her mother says, and her surprise is painfully obvious. “I wasn’t aware you two were close.”

“We’re here to finalize the alliance,” Clarke says. Kane’s eyebrows go up, and he shares a look with Jaha. Abby sighs and opens her mouth, but Clarke continues talking. “I know this isn’t my job, but I can help. Lexa and I have made an agreement.”

Abby raises an eyebrow and leans back in her chair. “What kind of agreement?”

Clarke glances at Lexa. “You probably don’t want to know the details of it.”

Lexa steps forward and gives a short bow. “I’ve been unnecessarily stubborn about this alliance and believe it shouldn’t take long to finalize the details of our agreement.”

Clarke nods. “Our countries might have differing aggression policies, but we both agree that Weathervane is a threat. The Clans,” Clarke says with a nod towards Lexa, who nods back, “would provide aggressive forces, and we, Ark, would provide passive forces, such as doctors or diplomats, and we both share supplies as needed. It’s most important to provide a united front to the Wallaces. They will hesitate knowing that we are aligned.”

Abby looks surprised, and Kane leans over to Jaha and whispers, “I win.”

Clarke smiles, gestures for the clerk to take a seat. “Please, write that down.” With some more input in phrasing, the terms of the alliance are partially hammered out. Much of it follows the guidelines that Lexa and Abby had determined beforehand, but with Clarke’s presence and the promise of the search, Lexa becomes more cooperative and talks more directly, instead of circles. Details such as number of soldiers, doctors, and so on, are to be decided after thought on a later day. That would be a discussion Clarke is not privy to, for which she is glad. She’s not the greatest diplomat, which might be why Lexa likes her. Clarke’s no good at mincing her words and compromises,

“With this done and out of the way,” Clarke says, a few hours later, stretching at th desk. “I have an announcement for you.”

“Is there another alliance you have planned?” her mother asks tiredly, though she smiles kindly.

“I’m going to find Bell, and I’m going to ask him to marry me.”

Kane coughs suddenly, and Jaha frowns in disapproval, but her mother doesn’t react. Her eyes search Clarke’s face, and Clarke sits a little taller. She is an adult, capable of her own decisions, but the constant disapproval from the past few days weigh heavily on her. With only her mother left, Clarke craves her mother’s approval.

Then there’s a smile on Abby’s worn face. “Your father would have liked him,” she says, and that’s all the permission Clarke needs. She jumps up to reach her mother, throwing her arms around her mother’s shoulders, and then presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Thank you,” Clarke whispers. “Thank you, thank you, _thank you_.”

“While you’re searching,” Kane says, standing up to give Clarke a hug as well. It’s a little more awkward, but it’s sincere. “Could you pass a summons to the Murphy family? That incident last night doesn’t sit well.”

Clarke nods into Kane’s shoulder, steps away and bites her lip to keep tears away. “I’ll be going now.”

“Good luck,” Jaha calls as she leaves, Lexa following her. Her mother calls for refreshments from a nearby maid as they leave.

“Now,” Clarke says to Lexa on their way to the stables, where Wells is likely to be. “Let’s go find my love.”

 

 

The sun rises, flooding the room with light. The dresser is in pieces, splinters all over the floor, and all the clothes Bellamy owns are tossed around. The bedside table remains intact, and the bed is too small for him. Bellamy’s body throbs, a full body ache, a full body experience of pain, and he knows he needs to get up. There is no list today, and he is not going to get a doctor to make sure that none of his bones were fractured or broken, that he’ll heal cleanly. The sunlight beckons to him, and the quality of light makes him think of Clarke. Warm, fresh, a promise in the air.

Time passes, the sun climbing the sky, and Bellamy knows he needs to get out of bed, but he’s afraid to move. He didn’t sleep much, the bruises on his body preventing any chance of finding a comfortable spot or position. His legs are screaming at him, slightly curled, to prevent his feet from dangling over the edge. The Murphy’s will run him ragged, as though there had been no beating, that Bellamy had not received one of the worst beatings of his life just yesterday. The Murphy’s made a spectacle of it, but didn’t tell the other staff why. A warning, perhaps, but the Murphy’s never said why.

Someone knocks on his door, and Bellamy is terrified it’s a Murphy, come to drag him bodily out of bed and give him another beating for being late. It happened, before, when he was a child. The fear of the Murphy’s will never quite go away, for the fear has been conditioned.

“It’s all right,” Miller says, pushing through with one shoulder, a tray in his hands. “I snuck off with some food to check on you.”

“You shouldn’t—”

“But I am,” Miller cuts through and places the tray on the bedside table. He eyes Bellamy’s position. “Need help?”

Bellamy grunts and manages a sitting position. Everything in his body is screaming, but it’s more visceral than that, a keening of every blood cell in his body, a protest, but all entirely futile. He has to move. “I’ll be fine.”

Miller crosses his arms and watches Bellamy struggle. “Bellamy, you can accept help. Nothing will happen.”

Bellamy can’t help the snort, because every time he has ever accepted help, nothing good happened. First example is now, his current situation, the damned fairy godparents, and second example is when a maid was fired for helping him with chores once, and, finally, third: when he asked for advice after his parent’s died, he was advised to sell him and his sister. Bellamy’s life would be different and much better if he hadn’t asked for help.

“The Murphy’s are sleeping late today,” Miller says as Bellamy eyes the food. A soup with some bread. He pushes the bread into the soup, because his teeth scraped up the inside of his mouth yesterday and he needs it soppy, edges softened. “So take your time getting up.”

Bellamy uses his fingers to push the piece of bread around, sucking the creamy soup off his fingers. “Thanks,” he says, when Miller’s just about out the door.

Miller flashes him a smile. “Just get better.” The door closes behind him, and Bellamy focuses on finishing the whole bowl of soup. He can’t quite do it, his torso in pain with every breath, his stomach roiling with the new contents.

He glances outside the window. It’s mid-morning, encroaching upon the hours of late morning and early afternoon. He hasn’t woken up this late in years, if ever. He gingerly pulls off the clothes he slept on and ignore the blood stains from scratches he received in the beating. Carefully, he pulls on new pants and shirt, taken from the floor, and brings the tray to the kitchen. He gives it wordlessly to Miller and walks into the courtyard.

Midnight is sleeping in a corner, not earning his cat’s keep, and his ears perk up when Bellamy closes the door behind him. The cat meows loudly and follows Bellamy out the courtyard, to the vegetable garden. He looks at the garden, at the pumpkin patch that are down by three, and wanders over to the orchard. The ground is littered with fruit, the air just starting to smell sickly sweet, of rotting sugar. He runs hands down the trunks of the trees, of the apples, plums and the pears, and he continues past the orchard to the forest.

In the past, escape had been been tempting. The forest was always close, but the Murphy’s too powerful, and that past Bellamy had something to lose. Now, Midnight meandering behind him, he doesn’t. The Murphy's will continue to take their anger out on him, and Bellamy can’t help the fear that one day their unreasonable anger will go one step too far. Running away will only speed it up. He will never see Clarke again, and he wants to remain strong for Octavia, but it’s been fifteen years. His faith is losing strength.

“You’ve been in there,” he says to Midnight. “What’s in the heart of the forest?”

Midnight meows, and then he stalks forward into the forest. Bellamy watches Midnight’s black pelt disappear into a bush and takes a few steps past the line himself. It doesn’t feel right, somehow. It’s too unplanned and unlike him. Besides, he likes Miller and Roma’s pretty okay. He doesn’t want to risk the Murphy’s punishing them. Sighing, Bellamy returns to the vegetable garden and the mess it has become, with vines crawling all over the place, and more vegetables to harvest.

He stops by the kitchen for a moment to grab a basket and is confused by the bustle.

“What’s going on?” he asks Miller as Roma runs in to grab a tea set.

The other shrugs. “Someone’s visiting. More than that, I can’t say.”

Bellamy looks at the door Roma exited through and grabs a basket. “I have more vegetables for you, as well as fruit,” he tells Miller and grabs a few bushel baskets on his way out. He walks through the courtyard, dropping the baskets nearby while he works on the vegetable garden. He pulls off a few squash and wrestles with the beans for a while, harvesting all the ripe ones and readjusting the vines on the trellis. With the weight of the beans, some of the vines had detached from the wood. He pulls off some more tomatoes and eats a few of the cherry tomatoes.

Putting that basket aside, Bellamy moves to the orchard. This harvesting is long overdue, and there is a lot of fruit to pick. He fills the bushel baskets pretty quickly. There’s no way that Miller can cook this much fruit before it goes bad, so maybe they’ll sell the extra in market. The Murphy’s would appreciate the extra money, he’s sure. They always do.

Carrying the bushel baskets over is a hard task because he’s not sure there’s a single place on his body without a bruise, though they mostly avoided his face. A bruised face makes him more pitiable, he discovered when younger. A bruised face makes him seem more like a victim, and the Murphy’s don’t care for that. But his face isn’t any good when it comes to carrying heavy baskets, but he has to carry them in somehow. The handles cut into his palms, unforgiving, and there are two more baskets to carry all the way over.

“Fruit,” he says to Miller when he drops the first one off. The second trip is harder, the basket impossibly heavier, the calluses on his hands good for nothing. He is trudging back to fetch the last basket, dreading the task, when he hears the commotion.

“Your Highness, I promise, there’s nothing to find here,” he hears the elder Murphy say. “Please, come back inside, and we can resume the talks we were having.”

There’s a sharp laughter that Bellamy thinks he recognizes, but isn’t sure. It sounds like Clarke, but that’s a silly, schoolyard fantasy. There’s no way Clarke is here. He glances over his shoulder and— it _is_ her, eyes flicking around the courtyard, the Murphy’s trailing her. The Clans woman is there too, as well as a tall man he doesn’t know.

Facing forward, Bellamy walks away fast. It’s a hallucination, from the pain. He’s wishing her here so bad that he’s imagining it, a gross dream. Wick or Raven must have done something, but that’s not possible either, because he hadn’t verbalized the wish. He picks up the last bushel and turns around, sure that the mirage will disappear, even though Murphy’s insistent pleas continue.

Clarke is at the end of the row of trees, and there’s a smug look on both of her companions faces. She’s eyeing him, and she steps cautiously forward. He lets go of the basket and steps towards her as well.

“Princess?” he asks softly, because he still can’t believe this is true.

A wide smile, sudden and there to stay, spreads across her face and she runs to close the distance, throwing her arms around his neck. He staggers backwards against the sudden weight and twinges of pain, stabilizes in a moment, and he wants to run a hand through her hair but he’s too scared for that. She isn’t supposed to be here, so she can't be here. His mind struggles with the logic and the evidence.

“Bell, it’s you,” she whispers into his neck. “It’s actually _you_.”

It’s confirmation, somehow, that she is here, that she’s real, and he crushes her to him, her size familiar from dancing, the mild scent of lavender that clings to her also familiar, the heat of her body, tangible through their clothes, like coming home. She’s his _home_. “You’re here,” he murmurs back. “I can’t believe— you’re _here_.” She nods, and his neck feels wet as though she’s crying, but he can’t say anything because he’s crying too. “Princess, you found me.”

“I did, Bell. I found you, I was _always_ going to find you.”

She pulls away, pats his chest with her curled fist and that elicits a wince. Her face goes hard for a moment at the expression, but then she’s soft curves and tenderness, leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s not enough, there’s no way such a simple kiss could be enough, and he hesitantly takes her face in both hands, running a thumb over her cheek. Her skin is smooth, and her eyes question him.

“I love you,” he says, then he kisses her, one hand sliding to curve around her head. Her hands grab at his shirt, fisting the old fabric, and he can feel her lips curve into a giddy smile against hist. Her smile is a good thing, it means the world, it means that everything will be alright.

She’s laughing when they pull apart, but it takes him a few more moments to move forward, into this moment, instead of thinking of that kiss and how much he wants to kiss her again. “I love you too, you know. Wait a second,” she says, and then she has his mask in hand. “Just to be sure,” Clarke says with a cheeky smile and ties the mask around his face. “Now I know it’s you.” He rolls his eyes and kisses her again, a small peck against laughing lips, and he returns the smile, before kissing her again, harder, with more intent.

 

 

 

 

Clarke does not share the details of what happens to the Murphy family, and Bellamy prefers it that way. After their reunion, he starts living in the palace and it takes him time to break out of habits formed in the Murphy house, such as his early hours, low expectations and so on. His cats come with, and, though not exactly a problem before, the number of rodents in the palace goes down dramatically. They become spoiled, and Pokey grows fond of Wells and adopts him. Midnight remains proud, staking out the garden as his personal space.

The story of Bellamy Blake, a slave, who won the heart of Princess Clarke, floods across Ark. It makes for a nice story, Bellamy and Clarke say over dinner, in the beginnings of their relationship, doesn’t it? Of dreams coming true, of perseverance and hard-work, the sheer value of dreams, and when they hold a wedding some month later, people flock to attendance. The crowd makes Bellamy slightly uncomfortable, because he’s accustomed to orders, of being below and not so high up, of people seeing through him. Lexa attends the wedding with Costia, and Weathervane sends their regrets.

The alliance between the Clans and Ark holds fast, and they send envoys to each other, for training in various disciplines, like medicine or fighting. Their countries are never fully friendly, always slightly wary, but they get along well enough.

For years, happiness had been out of Bellamy's reach. Now, with Clarke by his side, it’s real, tangible, and the future is promising.


End file.
